


Please God, Let Me Go

by jessaverant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Ginger!Sherlock, John being a badass, Kidnapping, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, kink meme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood, John Watson decided, was too cliche for the note he was going to leave behind. Because he would leave one behind; there would be no "Please, God, let me live" this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please God, Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from the kink meme: John is kidnapped during the hiatus and is sure he's going to die. He's oddly ok with it but he doesn't want anyone to blame themselves when they don't save him in time so he leaves them a note saying it's fine and he's hoping he'll get to see Sherlock in an afterlife.

Writing in blood, John Watson decided, was too cliché.   
  
No matter how his brain rationalized the decision (it’d be  _so_  much easier than forcing ink out of the pen-tip he had), he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. His right wrist, splattered with paper-thin cuts and scrapes, was the perfect inkwell for this endeavor. And yet…  
  
John sighed, breaths in shuddered gasps, as he leaned against the stone cold wall. The chains his captor had used to pin back his arms were neither very strong nor fastened very well and John had easily wiggled free of them. His legs, however, were very much still attached to the wall, leaving John’s livable space about three feet in diameter.  
  
The pen-tip with remaining plastic inkwell was warming up between the thumb and index finger of his left hand, rolling back and forth over his fingertips. He had to coax as much ink as possible so as to effectively get his message across. The piece of scrap he’d salvaged the last time his captor was in his cell sat on the floor, stamped with a bootprint across the right edge. Other than that, it was perfect.  
  
There was a  _bang_  somewhere upstairs and John silently wondered if the young man had found stronger chains. Knowing him, probably not.   
  
His arm glittered in the filtered light, fresh blood shining oddly bright. These last chains weren’t very strong but they  _were_  very old, and their rusting edges had left John with wider, thicker lacerations. Before today, the sight would have at least coaxed a wince from him. The blood trickling down his wrist garnered no reaction, save for a frown.  
  
 _What shall I say?_  he wondered as his thoughts drifted. Though he was still tempted to write in his own blood to fulfill some sick fantasy in the darkened recesses of his brain, he decided to write something coherent and palpable. He glanced down at the paper; he could only do one draft.  
  
 _Dear Sebastian_  
  
No. He closed his eyes and shook his head. No, no, he shouldn’t waste the paper on the young colonel Sebastian Moran. If he was going to write something, it should be to someone other than the one person he’d spoken to for weeks. Another bang from upstairs, and John briefly wondered if Sebastian were making repairs to his run-down home.  
  
 _I have lost track of the days_  
  
No, that was also bad. He could hardly hold a journal with a single page. Writing to himself was also pointless. He tapped the pen tip against the dust on the floor, slowly moving it in a figure eight pattern.   
  
He’d decided to write something (anything) when I found the bit of pen and paper, but now that he was actually about to do it, he felt hopeless.   
  
 _I have lost track of the days. Every day and every night bleed together as one. I don’t think I can stand up anymore._  
  
Something in John’s stomach lurched, and he leaned to the side, holding his chest. The motion made his vision dip and twist and he closed his eyes, allowing the deepest breaths he could muster. _In, out, Watson,_  he thought.  _In. Out._  The dust seeped into his lungs and he coughed—abrasive, hacking coughs that rubbed his throat raw. His eyes watered from the effort.  
  
“I don’t think I can stand up,” John whispered, his voice catching. Saying it out loud made it much realer and much more…. Pleasant. John limply rolled one of his legs over and debated trying to stand, but he honestly didn’t have the energy anymore. Even sitting up straight was a strain. And speaking of straining, since when did this room get darker and foggier? John squinted, rubbed his eyes, and suddenly the room was bright again. Oh, it wasn’t the room; it was him. His ears throbbed as blood pounded through his head.  
  
 _I… I think I’m going to die._  The thought was sudden, swimming up from the depths into his mind, suddenly taking over all his other thoughts.  _That’s it. I’m going to die this time._  
  
John leaned against the wall and glanced at the chain hanging limply, barely even staying within the wall. Now that he thought about it, in his early days, he could have probably used the force of the chains to break the damp wooden walls of a surly basement in Surrey.  
  
 _I am going to die._  John let the pen drop from his fingertips and laid with his eyes closed, breaths so even it was trance-like. 

 _I am going to die._  
  
How much time passed after this realization was a mystery, and for a brief moment John wondered if the admittance was enough to send him away. Of course, he then realized that he was thinking again, and opened his eyes slowly. The room hadn’t changed one bit in the time he was asleep, and he felt strangely refreshed. It was the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks, that’s for sure.  
  
 _I am going to die_  went from churning his stomach to settling him instead. It was almost funny, he thought, for Sebastian was so keen on keeping him alive.   
  
John glanced down at the paper, still lying in the dust beside him.  
  
 _If they come, they won’t understand Sebastian,_  John thought.  _If they come, they won’t understand me._  John brought the paper to his thigh, lifting his leg as much as he could, and took the pen tip to the palm of his hand. The sound of clinking chains, a sound so familiar to John, sounded from somewhere upstairs.  
  
He knew who he would write to.  
  
\--  
  
Colonel Sebastian Moran had been taken into custody, and now Greg Lestrade found himself weaving through a veritable minefield of a house to locate a missing friend. Had he been quicker, he would have gotten to the rest of the house  _before_  a Welsh ginger had barraged his way through, knocking things over in his wake. Lestrade was only a few steps behind, the Detective Inspector who replaced him on his heels, when he found the hidden door to the hidden room. They’d already found one part of the basement, and now they’d found the other.  
  
“Tread lightly!” Lestrade called, and the D.I. behind him swallowed deeply. The stench met them with such a force that it was like a punch to the chest as they bounded down the stairs, but Lestrade brushed it aside with ease. The Welsh ginger had been so  _eager_  to get downstairs he’d neglected to bring a torch, and Lestrade shone it on the back of his head as he entered the small chamber.  
  
The sight he witnessed almost knocked him over in sympathy.  
  
John Watson was propped up against the far wall, his arms suspended above his head, held together with brand-new chains. His head hung limply on his chest, although he was being held up by two calloused hands.

The Welsh ginger spun around to look at Lestrade as soon as the light hit him, and Lestrade was greeted with the distraught face of one Sherlock Holmes, bright orange curls sticking to his wet face.  
  
“Get him down,” Sherlock barked, and Lestrade waved to the D.I. The young man, having never worked with Sherlock Holmes before this case, was a bit nervous but did as he was told, and rushed over to the wall where John hung. Lestrade followed suit and tried all the keys that they had taken off Sebastian’s person; naturally, the last one they tried was the right one. John’s arms fell limply to his sides and Sherlock immediately pulled him into his arms, resting the doctor’s head on his inner shoulder.  
  
“Get his ankles, too,” Sherlock said, softer this time, and Lestrade obeyed. Lestrade then tried to pry John’s lifeless form from Sherlock, to lay him down and get a proper airflow but Sherlock stubbornly refused, only pulling John into his embrace tighter.  
  
“Sherlock, he needs to be able to breathe properly—and his bones could be broken. Be sensible,” Lestrade reprimanded. The D.I. knelt down on John’s other side, mumbling into his radio.   
  
“His breathing is shallow,” Sherlock said. “His pulse is slow. None of his bones are broken but some are fractured; he’s suffered prolonged blood loss. His face is ashen, his eyelids are dusky.” Sherlock rattled off observations as he stared down at John’s face, never once moving to let him go.  
  
“Sherlock—”  
  
“What’s this?” the D.I. asked suddenly, interrupting the two. He held up a piece of thin paper. “I noticed it in his pocket.” The tell-tale wail of an ambulance cried in the distance.  
  
“You’ve called for backup?” Lestrade inquired, and the D.I. nodded.  
  
“They’ll be here soon—”  
  
“No!” Sherlock interrupted them. “No one else in this room.”  
  
“Sherlock, my God,” Lestrade said, and there was a brightness in his chest.  _I never thought I’d ever be yelling at Sherlock Holmes again._  The light immediately faded as he glanced down at John, who looked the very picture of death.  
  
“Let me see that,” Lestrade said, and he took the paper from the D.I.  
  
“The _only_ person who can come in is the paramedic,” Sherlock said. “After John has been taken away, you may allow other inspectors.”  
  
“Mr. Holmes, be reasonable,” the D.I. argued. “As soon as they are able, the others will want to begin their investigation.” Sherlock disregarded the D.I. and was staring at Lestrade instead, who had been reading the paper. The entire time, Sherlock had been cradling John tightly, unconsciously rocking back and forth just slightly on his hip, absently stroking John’s cheek with his thumb.  
  
“Hold on,” Lestrade instructed, holding up a hand. “This is a note. It’s a note from John.”  
  
“Is it? What does it say?” The D.I. asked. Sherlock continued to watch Lestrade, his gaze never straying, not even blinking. Lestrade glanced up at Sherlock.  
  
“I don’t think you’ll like this.”  
  
“Read it,” Sherlock said. Lestrade sighed.  
  
“ ‘ _To whomever reads this note: if you are reading this, than I am incapable of speaking to you myself. Either I have passed or will be passing shortly. I’m writing this note for you now to tell you the small truth of Sebastian Moran. He is very disturbed, and I think my personal experiences with war and PTSD have helped him in ways he hasn’t been helped before. Although he has kept me down in the basement, he brings me regular meals and talks to me in brief spurts as if I am an old friend. Unfortunately, his psychotic episodes are what predominantly control his life, and as of late he has spent more and more time secluded in the very top of the house. I fear he has forgotten me. He was very loyal to James Moriarty, and I think it’s because he was as good a listener as I was to poor Sebastian._ ’ ” Lestrade glanced up.

“Why would you think I wouldn’t like this?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“I’m not finished,” Lestrade replied. “ …‘ _As for me, I only have one request. Help Sebastian. And let me go. I have done all I can, and if my last act was saving the lives of any other potential victims of Sebastian Moran by understanding him, than it is a noble cause. I’m a doctor first and foremost, and my patients are the best of me. If you have come too late to save me, do not pity me. It’s fine. If I have no yet died, but am close, I ask you to let me go. It is my last request._ There’s more after that but the writing gets very messy and hard to read,” Lestrade said slowly. He turned the page over. “Maybe I can—oh,  _God_ , no.”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asked. The D.I. was standing now, holding his radio. The voices on the other end made it clear that more traps had sprung on the cautious policemen upstairs, and the paramedics were having a rough time getting through. Sweat beaded Sherlock’s brow.  
  
“He wrote one more legible thing,” Lestrade explained, shaking his head. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “ ‘ _Dear Sherlock, I will see you soon. Love, John._ ’ ”   
  
The room was silent. Lestrade lowered the note and simply looked at John, who was completely still. The small curls on Sherlock’s neck shifted every second or so, and it was the only indication that John was still alive; those small, struggling breaths.   
  
Sherlock was at a loss.  
  
“Where are those paramedics? Is the ambulance here?” Sherlock asked, twisting around. His eyes had gone wide.  
  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, “they can’t get through.”  
  
“That’s foolish,” Sherlock responded. “Isn’t it their job to help people?”  
  
“Sherlock—” Lestrade began gently, taking a step towards the detective. Sherlock recoiled as if burned.

“John is an idiot,” Sherlock spat, although his eyes were brimming with unconscious tears. “He only wants to die because he still thinks _I’m_ dead. But I’m _not_ , so he must live.” Lestrade’s shoulders slumped as a wave of fatigue washed over him. He couldn’t do this again, losing a close friend. He just _couldn’t._ And clearly, nearly could Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“Sherlock, you don’t know that,” Lestrade said. He glanced down at the note; the words _screamed_ at him.  
  
“You’re with Scotland Yard, isn’t _your_ job saving people?” Sherlock asked. John was getting heavier and heavier in his arms. “Isn’t it _their_ job?” He gestured towards the helpless D.I., who was speaking into his radio.

“I haven’t worked with Scotland Yard in two years,” Lestrade said. “This is the first time, and I’m only a consultant.” Sherlock twisted around and glanced at the new D.I.

“You!” he barked, “get the paramedics right now!” His voice was cracking. Lestrade could see all the telltale signs of someone on the verge of hysterics, and seeing it in Sherlock Holmes was unsettling. It was as if everything on the planet had been twisted and warped.

“Sherlock, you can’t order the Met around anymore,” Lestrade tried to say, but Sherlock was no longer listening. John was twitching now, almost collapsing into Sherlock, and Sherlock tightened his hold until he was nearly cradling him. Sherlock strung his fingers through John’s hair and pushed his head into his shoulder, rubbing John’s back with his other hand. His dusty face was streaked with tears he didn’t know he was shedding. The entire sight broke Lestrade’s heart.  
  
“It’ll be alright, John,” he heard Sherlock murmur. The D.I. placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, although the detective shrugged it off.

“Mr. Holmes,” the D.I. said softly, crouching beside him, “the gurney is being brought down right now. It’d be most helpful if you could let him go.” Sherlock said nothing in response. Lestrade wasn’t sure Sherlock was even listening anymore.

For a long time Sherlock refused to let John go, like a child holding a loved toy, even with all of Lestrade’s gentle coaxing. Finally, after several minutes and a steady hold on his shoulders by Lestrade, Sherlock allowed John to be placed on the gurney, where a sheet and blanket were tucked around him and he was carefully carried upstairs. Although they were going to hospital with John, the look on Sherlock’s face told Lestrade the immediate truth:

John was gone, and no amount of apologies or pleads would bring him back.


End file.
